


so may the sunrise bring hope where it once was forgotten

by interim



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Gen, The Reynolds Pamphlet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-27
Updated: 2016-04-27
Packaged: 2018-06-04 18:27:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6669517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/interim/pseuds/interim
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Philip is six when he learns that his mother is Wonder-Woman.<br/>He is fifteen when he learns that someone needs to be protecting his mother.</p><p>In the wake of the Reynolds Pamphlet, Philip wishes to grant her peace of mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	so may the sunrise bring hope where it once was forgotten

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first fic blah blah blah unbeta'd blah blah blah  
> allegedly loosely in the universe of iaintinapatientphase's "what we know"

Philip is six when he learns that his mother is Wonder-Woman. 

It’s a Sunday in New York, after church, and the ever-expanding Hamilton family is promenading home. Philip and his little sister run half a block of ahead only to be halted by their father’s shouts, to which they return an exasperated look. They wait anyway. Alexander pushes Alex, Jr.’s stroller as Eliza walks--or waddles, rather, with the birth of their fourth child impending--next to him with her hand resting on her stomach. They’re a slow crowd. Philip grows impatient again and runs forward with Angelica, the two of them almost darting into the street before a car horn and a flash of red blaze past them from seemingly out of nowhere.

“Philip, hold Angie’s hand before you cross the street!” Alex calls after them, turning over the reins of Alex, Jr.’s stroller to Eliza as he ran to catch up with his children. He kneels down behind them and places Angie’s hand in Philip’s as though they didn’t hear him. “You have to protect her, okay?”

Philip’s eyes gleam in response to his newfound responsibility. He grips his sister’s hand tightly and yanks her closer to him as the crosswalk changes and they step off into the street. Agonizing from the other side of the road, Philip watches his parents as they walk leisurely to him. Eliza now drives the stroller with one hand, her other intertwined with Alex’s.

“Daddy?” Philip begins after a minute of deep consideration, earning a noise of acknowledgement. “Do you hold Mommy’s hand to protect her, too?”

Alex laughs silently, sharing a look with Eliza, whose eyebrows have shot up, expectant and amused. He shakes his head, bringing their clasped hands up to his lips to kiss hers. 

“Your mother doesn’t need me to protect her, Pip. She’s Wonder-Woman.”

With a fond smile on her face, Eliza shakes her head as she always does whenever someone tries to insist her sainthood or superpowers. Before she can open her mouth to protest, Alex corrects himself: “I know, Betsey, you’re ‘only human.’”

Alex looks down and gives Philip a wink, mouthing the words “Wonder-Woman” before they continue to walk down the street. 

 

\-----

 

Philip is fifteen when he learns that someone needs to be protecting his mother.

Perhaps his father’s paranoid genes have been passed onto him, but he definitely feels like everyone is staring at him. He tries, desperately, to focus on his teacher’s lecture. Sigmund Freud. Sure. Psychosexual development. Sure. But he can only pay attention to the whispers and the eyes he knows are glued to his back. 

“Alexander Hamilton. Isn’t that Philip’s dad?”

Wait. 

“It is. Do you think he knows?” Knows. The way his classmate says it is so full of pity, disgust, worry. 

Philip’s legs are shaking. He sneaks his phone out of his pocket, expecting a streamline of texts telling him his dad is in the hospital or gone or dead. Instead, he sees a page of Twitter notifications. 

_ @AlexHamilton: I have rsns 4 shame, but haven’t committed treason OR sullied good name.  _ [ _ https://t.co/Z4THRhvGw/s/Z4y _ ](https://t.co/Z4THRhvGw/s/Z4y)

_ @TJefferson: Have you read this?!  _ [ _ https://t.co/Z4THRhvGw/s/Z4y _ ](https://t.co/Z4THRhvGw/s/Z4y)

_ @Buzzfeed: BREAKING: Frmr. Treasury Sec. @AlexHamilton publishes account of affair with 23 y/o married woman _ .  [ _ https://t.co/Z4THRhvGw/s/Z4y _ ](https://t.co/Z4THRhvGw/s/Z4y)

“Mr. Hamilton, are you alright?” His teacher asks him, looking down at him incredulously. Suddenly, Philip is standing, palms slammed against his desk. He nods, muttering an excuse about needing to go to the bathroom, and bolts out the door. 

He locks himself in a stall and tries to steady shaking hands as he clicks the link that oh so many people feel the need to tweet at him directly. His  _ classmates _ , for Christ’s sake. Ones that were sitting right next to him in class when the news broke, but tweeted about it instead of telling him in person. Cowards. Gossips. He thinks to himself,  _ If Pops could only see the shit they were saying about him _ … but he knew he could.

And he knew that he didn’t care what they said. Not enough to publish a novel refuting their remarks, anyway. Philip scans over the document, unable to really read it. Not at school at least. His thumb flies over the screen to scroll past what he can already discern are the more explicit testimonies of his affair. One phrase captures his full attention and he can’t move past it. 

_ I had frequent meetings with her, most of them in my own house, Mrs. Hamilton with our children being absent on a visit to her father _ . 

He chokes up. He remembers that summer vividly now: Mom and Aunt Angelica spent all of May and June trying to convince him to step away from his work and spend time with the family. He refused ( _ like he always did _ , Philip claims, with bitterness and hurt slanting his memory). The rest of the family still went upstate, Angelica acting as stand-in kid wrangler as they all ran around the vast woods and swam in the lake at night. Whenever one of the young ones would pout and ask where Daddy was, Eliza smoothed their hair and kissed their foreheads, assuring them that Daddy was very busy and couldn’t be here, but he would play with them when they returned home. 

Well, he sure was busy alright. 

Eventually, Philip realizes he needed to go back to class or someone would come looking for him. He slumps back in his seat with a detached look on his face. No one whispers about him anymore, because now they all know that he’s learned what his father has done. At least they have an ounce of respect. When the class lets out, he begins to meander to his next class when a thought strikes him. 

Mom. His mother. Eliza. She’s home today. She has to have seen it, to have read what he’s done. 

The world around him blurs and he takes off towards one of the doors leaving the school and starts walking until he reaches the bus station. He doesn't even realize what he's doing before he's already on the bus, nothing but a geometry textbook and his cell phone in his hands. He shoots Angie a text, telling her he had to leave, with no further explanation. She replies in seconds:  _ Let me know how Mom is, okay? _

As the bus approaches his stop, he feels his stomach lurch in tandem with the brakes. There's a mix of rush and dread inside him as he disembarks and finishes the half block between the bus stop and his house. Philip already knows he can't bear to see his mother in this shape, but he needs to know that she’s okay and needs to confirm her strength. She can still be Wonder-Woman, even after all of this. 

The door is slightly ajar, the handle not quite clicked in. Philip sighs at this, increasingly wary, and pushes the door open. He is alert for signs of distress as he wanders through the house slowly. It’s somewhat unnerving how normal everything still is. Their family pictures remain on the mantel. His father’s suit jacket is still slung over a chair in the kitchen from the night before. If he was in the same situation as his mother, he would be ruining every trace of Alexander in their home. Instead, everything is still preserved.

At the top of the stairs, he finally hears his mother. There’s quiet sniffling coming from the end of the hall, and Philip’s heart drops. His feet quicken, still silent on the thick carpet and he swings the door open to her bedroom. 

This was not how he imagined Wonder-Woman. 

She’s dressed in her typical stay-at-home wear: jeans, too nice of a blouse to be chasing after children all day, and a bun. She’s kneeled on the floor, pieces of hair having fallen into her face and stuck to tear-stained cheeks. Aged papers are scattered before her, and Philip recognizes his father’s slanted, loopy handwriting. He drops to his knees next to her, and she finally becomes aware of his presence. 

“Philip,” she breathes, startled and trying to clean herself and her project up. She wipes her eyes and pushes her hair back, collecting the papers up off the floor. “What are you doing home?”

“I heard about Dad at school and had to come home, and  _ Mom _ how could he do this--”

Eliza cuts him off sharply. “Philip, don’t you worry about this. He is still your father.”

_ Not for long _ , he wants to say. He wonders if she’s already called a lawyer about divorce papers, but he chides himself for being so morbid when his mother is already upset. Instead, he just looks down at his hands. 

“I think I hate him, Mom,” he admit.

“You don’t hate him, baby. You love him,” she tells him, her eyes filling with worry as she sees the cracks in her family start to develop. 

“How can I not hate him after this?”

He means it to comfort her, but he thinks it just breaks her heart more. Eliza sighs and pulls him close into a hug. She rubs his back and kisses the top of his head. Philip hates that she’s comforting him when she’s the one whose world is crumbling, but he relaxes into her arms still. 

  
\---

 

They don’t get a divorce. Not yet, anyway. 

That first night, Alex doesn’t come home until well after midnight. Philip has a surprisingly normal dinner with his mother and siblings, though he and Angie watch their mother with an especially close eye, looking for some kind of sign about how she was coping. Aunt Angelica bursts into the house while they’re having dessert, fresh off a plane, and ushers Eliza away so she could talk and cry like she wasn’t able to with Philip. He understands, of course. As much as his mother promises that she was human, he knows she would never allow her children to see her as weak. 

He sits in the hall and listens as Angelica soothes Eliza, cursing Alex to every corner of hell. He stays like that until he sees his father’s headlights in the driveway and slips back into his room, watching through a crack in the door. Alex stands petrified outside the bedroom door for nearly ten minutes before Angelica flings it open and looks at him with deep disgust. 

“Angelica.”

“Alexander.”

They speak in hushed tones, presumably so Eliza wouldn’t hear, but inevitably Alex can’t control himself.

“It was an act of political sacrifice! Angelica, I thought you, of all people, would understand.”

“Sacrifice?” His aunt snarls, with both anger for her sister and hurt for something deeper, before remembering her environment and lowering her voice out of hearing range for Philip. She emerges again with a sharp: “For the rest of your life, every  _ sacrifice  _ you make is for my sister.”

She breezes past him to the guest bedroom, and Alexander very tentatively enters his own bedroom and shuts the door behind him. Philip scoots back out into the hall, his heart pounding. This is something  _ bad _ . Their voices are muffled, but he knows they’re both crying. Eliza is unapologetic, wanting him to know how much he hurt her. Alex’s tears are stifled; he knows he has no right to cry. Soon, the quiet arguing transforms into yelling. She yells. About his paranoia, the press, spitting: “go sleep in your office, instead.” She throws something with finality as Alexander opens the door again and the smell of something burning wafts into the hall. Philip stands up with a start when he sees his father. 

“Philip,” he sighs. His eyes are gleaming both with the guilt and sadness of what he’s done and with the hope that he still has his children’s affections.

“Pops,” Philip mumbles. 

His refusal to look his father in the eye or say more than one word tells Alex everything. “Son, I hope you know that--”

“Are you and Mom getting a divorce?” he interrupts bluntly. He might as well know now. 

Pause. “I don’t know.”

“You should.”

Before Alex can respond, Philip turns on his heels and goes back into his room, shutting the door a little too loudly behind him. He tries to sleep.

 

\---

 

“Pip, wake  _ uuuuup _ ,” John whines, the earnest five year old trying to drag his older, and hundred pound heavier, brother out of bed. Philip swats him away. It’s Saturday morning and way too early for this. “Pip, we need your help. We can’t find Mommy.”

Well. That gets him out of bed. And nearly gives him a heart attack. 

“She’s probably just running some errands,” Philip assures him. “Why don’t you go wake up Angie and see if she’ll make you some breakfast, okay?”

He knows that Angie will kill him for sending their little siblings off on a mission to wake her up on a Saturday before noon, but that’s better than sending the whole house into a panic because Mom is nowhere to be found. Especially since Aunt Angelica went back to London for the weekend to pack up her house.

He checks his mother’s room again, even though it was probably the first-- if not only-- place they looked. Nothing. Bed perfectly made. Not in the bathroom, either. He checks all the other rooms on the second floor. None of the other kids’ rooms, not the laundry, and he doesn’t dare go near his father’s office. Downstairs, he finds nothing but his hyperactive siblings and a groggy Angie slowly making cereal and toast. Philip shoots her an apologetic smile before going downstairs to check the basement. 

Lo and behold, Eliza is there, dead asleep and curled up on the couch in the den with a blanket and a throw pillow. Philip’s chest hurts and he rushes to kneel by her side. He shakes her shoulder gently.

“Mom?” he whispers. Eliza wakes with a gasp, sitting up straight, like she was plucked out of a bad dream. “What are you doing down here?”

She’s quick to compose herself. With puffy eyes and her hair falling out of ponytail, she gives Philip her award winning calming smile. The same he’s seen her use when talking CEOs into emptying their wallets into her orphanage. She tucks his hair behind his ear and he thinks back to that summer that Alex missed. How she would comfort the little ones into forgetting their father’s absence with her soft touch and promises for later. “I must have just fallen asleep here last night when I went to turn off the light.” 

Philip knows she’s lying. One line from his father’s confession strikes him again. 

_ Most of them in my own house, most of them in my own house, most of them in my own house. _

She can’t sleep in her own bed. He doesn’t want to dwell on it. It will only upset her further if he tries to talk about it with her. He wants to do something. Give her his bed, he’ll sleep in the basement. But he can already see her waving him off before tucking his hair behind his ear. “Honey, no. You need your rest. I’m just fine,” she would say. And he would go on to see her get no sleep, just like his dad was in his makeshift bed in his office. 

Maybe both of his parents were stubborn idiots.

 

\---

 

The weeks drag on. Philip knows Eliza is still sleeping in the cold basement on that couch. Even after Aunt Angelica vacates the guest bedroom. She tucks all the children into bed at night, closes the door to her bedroom for a half hour or so before going down into the basement. Just before she needs to wake Philip or Angie up for school and start the day, she slips back in her own bed for a haunting half hour, just in case any of the kids runs into her room to try to wake her up. One of the many ways she and Alex are trying to fake normalcy for the little ones. 

When William starts teething and wakes up at all hours of the night, Eliza resumes her residency upstairs, but still doesn’t sleep in the condemned bed. Philip finds her curled up on the mostly decorative chaise, but he doesn’t dare wake her after her response the last time he found her outside her bed. 

It’s still not enough, obviously. Every morning, Philip eats breakfast with one eye on his mother as the circles under her eyes darken and she tries to rub a knot out of her neck. “Trouble sleeping, Mom?” he asks, not entirely intending to be a jerk. He just wants to remind her that she deserves to actually get some rest. She responds with a dark warning look. The tired bags under her eyes make it more frightening--and much more like his father’s glare. 

He fumes silently at the thought of his father. The whole damn reason this is happening. He ruined the bed, the family, the color in Eliza’s cheeks. Philip’s eyes burn with purpose. He stands up quietly as not to alarm his mother and rinses his bowl out in the sink before going upstairs to his father’s office. He pushes the door open and sighs, relieved, when he sees his father passed out on his couch. 

The state of his office is slightly disturbing. More books and papers than usual are scattered throughout, covering his desk completely and littering the floor. A half filled bottle of scotch acts as a bookend on one of his shelves. Empty takeout boxes are overflowing his trash can. Philip forgot that his father had his heart broken, too. 

He swallows his sympathy. All of this was Alex’s own fault. Philip sets his sights on Alexander’s briefcase, rooting through it until he finds his wallet. He sits down at his father’s desk, clearing some of the papers away and opening up his laptop. He tries to remember the name of one of the interior design magazines that accumulate in a bin near the fireplace. In a matter of minutes, he’s trying to pick out new bedding from an overpriced home and garden store. He’s slightly in over his head; he doesn’t know what thread count means, so he just chooses the most expensive one and clicks “add to cart.” He opens his father’s wallet and pulls out his credit card. For a twisted sense of irony, he hopes this is the account he used to pay Mrs. Reynolds’ husband. Philip figures that if his father wants to give his mistress’ husband almost twenty thousand dollars, he can spare a few thousand on his mother and her comfort that he stole. 

The couch on the opposite side of the room groans under Alexander’s shifting weight, and Philip looks up, eyes wide and hands frozen. He shoves the wallet back into the briefcase as he rapidly finishes typing up the address before slamming the laptop closed. He looks up to see his father sitting up in his makeshift bed, staring at him.

“Philip?” Alexander’s tired face still lights up at the sight of his first son. Philip curls his fingers into a fist, teeth clenched. “What are you doing?”

Philip is at a bit of a loss on how to answer that question. He shrugs, choosing honesty and taking on his mother’s tactic of saying as few words as possible to him: “I bought Mom a new bed. Actually, you did.”

“A new bed?” Alex prods, to Philip’s frustration. Like he doesn't know. He's the one who wrote the damn words. Philip fidgets some more in the seat, dropping his eyes away from his dad. Even though they’ve all been living with the reality that Alexander and Eliza can’t speak to each other, it’s still difficult to talk about what he’s done. “Son, what’s going on?”

“She’s been sleeping on couches since you were…  _ with  _ that lady in her real bed. And you probably would’ve noticed how tired she was that if you two could look each other in the eye,” he rushes out. He can see the air leave Alex’s lungs and the color drain from his face. He looks like he’s going to be sick. “Dad, you always told me Mom didn’t need protection, but that doesn’t mean she’s not hurt by anything.”

Alexander, for the first time in Philip’s life, is silent and it only urges Philip on. “You’re her husband. You’re supposed to take care of her. You’re not supposed to hurt her. You’re not supposed to cheat on her, and you’re definitely not supposed to tell the whole fucking world about it. Do you know how scary it is to see your mom in pain?” Alexander winces. Philip thinks of the whispers of his father’s Caribbean childhood and the lack of a second set of grandparents. He hesitates for a second but stands firm. “I can’t be the one who takes care of her. It’s terrifying, and she’ll never say anything to me anyway. The best I can do is this bed. So she gets a new bed.”

Alex stays quiet for another moment, nodding his head slowly with the same pale, frightened face. “She gets a new bed,” he croaks. 

 

\---

 

A week later, when the bed arrives, Philip drags it up to her room and makes it by himself. He places a note on top of the pillow, telling her she can sleep again. He sits inside his own room, patiently next to the door, and waits for her to return home so she can see it. A soft gasp precedes tears. He doesn’t know if they’re of joy or of sadness; maybe he doesn’t want to know.

A moment passes, and there’s a knock at his door. Eliza is standing before him with his note in her hand. 

“Did you do this?” she asks, voice full of hurt. By him? By what he’s done? By what it implies?

“Yes,” he admits quietly. “I don’t know, I didn’t know what to do, and you weren’t sleeping so I stole dad’s card, and you wouldn’t talk to me, and I’m sorry but--”

Eliza cuts him off gently. “Honey, sit down.” He obliges and she sits next to him. “Thank you. I know what’s happening is very difficult and confusing for you, but it only needs to be between me and your father. Don’t worry yourself about this, Pip.”

Philip is frankly tired of his mother telling him, or anyone else, not to worry about her. He is very worried, and he knows he has cause to be. Eliza can see this sentiment boiling up inside of him, so she squeezes his hand to calm him. “I mean it. We’re going to be okay.”

“Can I just ask one thing?”

“Of course.”

“Why haven’t you left him? The woman is one thing, but what he wrote? That’s unforgivable.” 

Eliza is silent for a long time, having dropped his hand. Philip fidgets in his bed, unsure if she didn’t hear him (not that he could repeat that question again) or if she doesn’t have an answer yet.

“Nothing is unforgivable. And you never immediately stop loving or caring for someone even when they hurt you.” She seems to be uncomfortable with her words as she stands up and shifts on her feet. “Sometimes it’s only a matter of time.”

He doesn’t know whether or not to believe what she’s saying. Is she so candid with him, or is she trying to pass on a teaching moment about forgiveness? What’s going on in this household, his parents barely looking each other in the eye, only the few essential words passed, is that supposed to be love? Philip only continues to contemplate as his mother decides their conversation is over, kisses him on the forehead, and tells him to come down for dinner in a few minutes. 

At the table, he watches the seemingly great pains it takes Eliza to even pass the butter to Alexander. Is this what love is? He thanks her, and she nearly recoils at his voice. Is this what love is? 

He wonders if the little ones notice the tension. He knows Angie knows what happened (yet, at least moreso than Philip, still speaks well with Alexander), and Alex, Jr. must see something, but Jamie and John are clueless. William is still a baby who clings to his mother naturally. 

The next morning when he sees her cooking breakfast with a pinkness restored to her cheeks and the bags under her eyes lightening. Her first sense of calm and happiness since the scandal is sleeping in a bed with no trace of her husband. Is this love?

Alexander sees her glowing face and smiles, reinvigorated by it and looking as though he lost ten years of his life because of it. Oh, Philip concludes, that’s the love she spoke of.

 

\--

 

Years pass. Philip grows out of his hatred for his father and slightly overcomes the protectiveness of his mother. Hurt heals between the two of them. A new baby girl is born. 

And the Hamilton children still at home enter into a very specific realm of teenage angst. 

When Philip returns home for Christmas during his second year at Columbia, he walks into a tense living room. Jamie and Alex, Jr. are sitting on the couch, arms crossed with fury, as Eliza tries to talk reason into them. Alexander is slumped in the corner, embarrassed. Philip hangs back at the door, trying to understand the situation without interrupting it. 

“...and while I appreciate what you’re trying to do, this is not something we need to discuss anymore, okay?” Eliza tells them, patting their knees. “It was years ago. Your father and I are fine now.”

Angie comes out of the kitchen, snickering to herself at the scene, and smiles when she sees Philip. She gives him a side hug and raises her eyebrows to ask why the rest of the family isn’t making a fuss that he’s returned home. 

“What’s happening right now?” he whispers, pointing to his younger brothers. Angie laughs again. 

“They found out about the Reynolds shit a couple weeks ago and started acting all pissy like you did, being super nice to Mom and not talking to Dad,” she told him. “It’s pretty funny, actually. Though neither of them got the bright idea to buy her a whole bed.” 

Philip rubs his forehead, a mix of embarrassment and pride at his actions as a teenager. Alexander chooses that moment to look up and see his son, jumping up from his tense position to greet him. “Philip!” Eliza, Jamie, and Alex, Jr.’s glances follow, dismissing their conversation to migrate towards him. Hugs and questions are passed all around the family, the continued when John, William, and Lizzie hear the commotion and come running down the stairs to see their brother. Lizzie reaches up to be lifted into her brother’s arms, and he kisses her cheek before Angie starts to diffuse the crowd. 

“Okay, okay, let the boy breathe. He’s just your brother, you’ve known him all your lives.” The others start to back off, leaving Angie, Philip--with Lizzie attached--, and their parents. 

“So,” Philip starts, bemused. “Angie tells me Jamie and AJ have stepped back into their mama’s boy phases.” 

“Did they ever leave it?” Angie snorts. Alexander rolls his eyes in agreement. 

At this moment, Eliza is not as lighthearted as her children or husband. She just shakes her head, saying, “They’re just doing the same thing you did when you found out about...this,” she dances around the concept, gesturing in the air to somehow indicate ‘that time your father cheated on me and published an essay recanting it to the whole world.’ Evidently, it’s still a little difficult for her to talk about.  “I hope John and William don’t do this, it’s exhausting.”

Alexander teases her with a smirk: “It must be  _ so _ exhausting to have your sons be sweet and helpful to you all day.”

“It is when you have to explain to them every day that no, I don’t want a divorce and no, they don’t need to call a women’s shelter,” she snaps, only somewhat coldly. Alexander quiets. 

Philip shifts Lizzie onto his other hip, trying to lighten the mood. “Well, you have five sons, so you’re gonna have to deal with five Oedipus complexes.” That, Eliza laughs at. 

“I thought I was the one with the psychology degrees, not you,” she shoots back.

The family starts to break apart again after that. Angie’s phone lights up with texts from an unnamed sender that causes her to blush scarlet when Eliza asks who’s calling her, so she disappears up into her room to text back. Alexander collects Lizzie from Philip to get her ready for bed. 

And then there were two. 

“You know, I might have grown out of how Jamie and Alex are behaving, but I still want to protect you,” he tells her. “I know all is forgiven and you’re happy now, but still. I worry. You can’t be not hurt at all anymore. You always told me you weren’t Wonder-Woman.” 

Eliza shakes her head, smiling. “It’s nice to see one of my children won’t buy into your father and Aunt Peggy’s ‘Saint Eliza’ routine. And you’re right. It does still hurt, but not all the time. Not even most of the time. Just sometimes.” 

“Sometimes?”

“Sometimes,” she repeats. Her smile fades into a sadder one that he knew when he was a teenager. 

“I’ll still protect you from the sometimes.”


End file.
